


Pinstripe Deathmatch

by agatestones



Category: Suits (TV), White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-17
Updated: 2012-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:40:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agatestones/pseuds/agatestones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Single-breasted, high-gorge notched lapel, three-button, double-vented, with jetted pockets. And that's just the jacket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pinstripe Deathmatch

Mike didn't much like Craig Wysocki, although he couldn't explain why. He hadn't even met the guy, just talked to him on a conference call, but something about him was kinda off.

"If I only worked with people I liked, I wouldn't have any work," Harvey said, as they climbed out of Ray's car.

"That's because you are a sad and lonely man," Mike told him. Harvey rolled his eyes.

Magallanes, Ltd. occupied two (very high) floors of the building, and Craig Wysocki occupied the southwest corner office. The atrium was gaudy, some kind of green stone shot through with flecks of gold all the way up the walls. They rode the elevator all the way up and the Magallanes lobby was gaudy too, pink marble this time. Their shoes echoed and dust motes danced in the sunlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Magallanes was an investment firm, very exclusive. Weird how all the companies that produced no tangible objects for their clients tried to impress them with interior decorating. Pearson Hardman did the same, honestly.

"Good, you're here," said Wysocki, in lieu of a greeting. His office was a haystack of paper, file cabinets pulled open. He brandished a folder at Harvey. "I get a call this morning, the FBI is sniffing through my finances. FBI! What the hell does that mean?"

"Federal Bureau of Investigation?" Mike muttered to himself. Wysocki was in too much of a tizzy to hear that.

"I thought we were here to talk about organizing a board of directors," Harvey said, and put his briefcase down ontop Wysocki's desk, right onto a pile of loose paper.

"Can't have a board if I don't have a company!"

"I don't do criminal defense," said Harvey, which was only mostly true. But honestly, I'm-a-billionaire-and- _still_ -had-to-steal was a crime even Harvey wouldn't defend. Mike hoped.

Wysocki flopped down into his chair. He was a young man for the amount of power he had, younger than Mike. His thick neck stuck out from a too-tight shirt collar like toothpaste out of a tube. "I didn't do anything," he insisted. The expression on his face was pleading more than puzzled. Mike disliked him anyway, but this sealed it: definitely dirty somehow. Wysocki might not have done it, but he'd known about it, or did now.

A glance at Harvey revealed nothing. His face was serene, his boredom impenetrable. "If you're brought in for questioning, or served with a search warrant, you can call the firm's general number and be referred to someone in the criminal division. If you want to organize a board, you can reschedule this meeting." He picked up his briefcase. He hadn't even sat down. People _paid_ for that level of mean in their legal advice. Paid a lot, and meekly did as they were told. Yelling all the way sometimes, but they seemed to take comfort in the idea that someone had told them No.

"Who'll want to be on my board if I'm under investigation?" Wysocki asked.

"That's up to you," said Harvey, and turned to go. It was a little galling that he did not indulge in high-fives or a victory dance or something. Mike thought the whole interaction deserved at least an _oh snap_. The whole thing got better, even, as Wysocki glanced over Harvey's shoulder and went pale.

Mike turned. Three men stood in the lobby, bothering the receptionist. Wysocki obviously recognized them. Had to be the FBI. And in the middle of that thought, Mike realized _he_ recognized one of those three people too. Harvey hmmed to himself, eyes narrow in avid curiosity. They stepped out of Wysocki's office and Harvey led the way toward the group of agents.

The leader was tallest and oldest, and looked like a math teacher. He had those little buttons on the points of his collar, a detail Harvey despised violently and had banished from Mike's wardrobe with extreme prejudice. The black man beside him was better-dressed, and stood very straight like a cop or a military man. The third member of the group was famous, in certain circles.

"Special Agent Clinton Jones, I presume." Harvey stepped forward with his hand outstretched. Mike could have sworn he had a _smile_ on his face.

"Harvey? What the hell, man?" The black man -- Jones -- turned abruptly, and burst into delighted laughter. They shook hands avidly, like old friends. Harvey was not known for his abundance of old friends.

"You know this guy?" Math Teacher didn't have much of a poker face, and hated Harvey on sight.

"Uh," said Jones, uncertain "this is Harvey Specter of Pearson Hardman. We went to law school together. Harvey, Agent Peter Burke."

"Intramural softball," Harvey added. "Best first-baseman on campus."

"And this is our consultant, Neal Caffrey." Jones said it casually, as if he'd introduced the most well-known art forger in the western hemisphere a hundred times. And maybe he had; Caffrey's manner was broad and friendly and totally unselfconscious. He was also wearing a three-piece suit, just like Harvey. He and Harvey looked each other up and down, but didn't speak to each other.

"Did Wysocki lawyer up already?" asked Math Teacher Peter Burke. He was observing the two best-dressed men in the room with a funny little half-smile. Mike self-consciously wiped all expression off his own face, afraid he had been doing the same thing.

"Not with me he didn't." Harvey shook his head. "You still play? I haven't found a Manhattan league worth a damn."

Caffrey was openly enjoying the contempt in which Harvey and Burke held each other. Jones struggled for small talk under their withering gazes.

Harvey hadn't bothered to introduce Mike; generally he didn't, as if Mike were a walking briefcase or an amazingly well-disguised Blackberry. Which was, well, a little annoying, but fine. This time, though, someone noticed. Caffrey turned his head and asked in a low voice, "Have we met?"

"No. Mike Ross." Mike was pretty sure he'd been staring. Professional envy overcame any sense of caution. "I'd heard of you, of course."

The interest spiked. Caffrey's charm was as overt as everyone said it was, all toothy smile and sincere attention. "Fellow traveler?"

Mike shook his head, suddenly a little nostalgic. "Not any more."

"Yeah, there's a rash of that breaking out," said Caffrey, offhand. Obviously, given the crowd he ran with now. "Art? Or finance?"

"Oh, uh, nothing like that. Test-taking for fun and profit, mostly."

"Huh." Caffrey shook his head. "Whatever floats your boat."

The magnetism of the man was overwhelming. "I was 19 when you went away. People talked about it for months." Mike could feel himself becoming effusive, eager to please. That kind of charisma would be a devastating tool; Mike wondered suddenly what Caffrey would have been able to do in a boardroom. "Burke was the one who caught you, right?"

"Long story," Caffrey said, with gentle dissuasion. Mike took the hint and changed the topic.

"Did you really jump out a judge's office window to escape federal custody?"

Caffrey smirked and slid his hands into his pockets. "That's the rumor."

"All things considered," Harvey was saying, "I hope we don't run into each other more often."

Jones chuckled. "Keep your clients' noses out of trouble," he admonished. There weren't a lot of people who could waggle their finger at Harvey Specter. Jones must have been a stellar first-baseman.

Burke gave them all a disapproving frown, and they re-sorted themselves into their separate parties. Caffrey grinned at Mike, who couldn't help but grin back. Harvey noticed, of course. It was too much to hope that he wouldn't cross-examine Mike about that interaction on the way back to the office.

They stood face-to-face and regarded each other, Caffrey cheeky and Harvey like an incredibly dignified viper. Caffrey's suit was navy, cut to emphasize his slim build: stylish, expensive, but kind of high-end slumming. It wouldn't have worked at Pearson Hardman, probably. Harvey eyed the details of the suit's finishing with the kind of keen attention he usually paid to dubious articles of incorporation. He was a long time about it, and Caffrey clearly didn't mind being looked at.

"Who's your tailor?" he asked, as Harvey turned to go.

"Someone you can't afford," Harvey told him, and strode toward the elevators. Mike straggled behind, delighted at the sartorial combat and probably doing a bad job of hiding it. Burke and Jones were just as bad, though.

"Looks like Rene's work," Caffrey said, to his back. "His needle is exquisite."

"It is," said Harvey, without looking back. His timing was impeccable, and the elevator doors opened just in time for him to walk in. Mike followed at his heels, as always, and watched Harvey's triumphant smile all the way down to the ground floor.

It was only as he was climbing back into Ray's car (sum total of time spent with client: 5 minutes; with travel time, billing came to 1 hour even) that Mike felt something in his pocket. It was a small rectangle of stiff paper, corners sharp. Instinctively he waited to pull it out and look at it till after he was back at his desk, and Harvey on the other side of the building. It was a business card, of course. Neal Caffrey, Consultant. He didn't bother to tell the topic of his consultancy. Mike hadn't felt a thing: the man's dexterity had to be magnificent.

He set the card aside in a safe place. Someday Mike might need an escape artist on his side.

Wysocki never did reschedule his appointment to talk about a board of directors. Mike read with satisfaction the newspaper accounts of his arrest that Friday.


End file.
